Friendship and Folly
by C. Jayne Reed
Summary: A series of vignettes focused on the friendships, rivalries, and enemy-hoods between the girls of Pokemon, with occasional instances of introspection and tons of AUs. Pearl- and/or Wishfulshipping are likely the only ships that will be implied/alluded to/mentioned, but the focus is on the girls' relationships with themselves, possibly their Pokemon, and each other, not their beaus.
1. Chapter 1

**I decided that, instead of Pearlshipping for my second addition to FF (there's tons of that, and I _will _write tons of that, so it's not like I'm abandoning the ship) I'd have a bunch of oneshots/twoshots/redshots/blueshots about the female characters of Pokemon, and their friendships _outside of Ash, or any pairing_. There's probably not going to be much discussion of any ships, 'cause I like to think that the girls of Pokemon have more things to talk and disagree about than who's dating whom and which boy's the cutest.**

**I don't own Pokemon.**

**This one is about Iris and Dawn. Word prompt is 'Run.'**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Iris tiptoes through the Berlitz residence, cringes at the petulant _creak _of a floorboard, and decides that, ultimately, the sound doesn't matter, 'cause Dawn is going to have to wake up soon, anyway. As she opens Dawn's bedroom door, she thinks that, in fact, the _creak _served as forewarning, so there's no need to wake Dawn gently. She's had time to brace herself, after all.

"Good morning!" Iris whisper-shouts; then, at Dawn's 'go away', she yanks back the covers and whaps Dawn on the head with a pillow.

Dawn gives a pillow-muffled scream. Her right hand shoots out and intercepts the swinging pillow, as her left fumbles around wildly on the dresser for either her hairbrush or a weapon. Perhaps they can function as the same thing.

Thinking on this, Iris picks up the brush and takes a step back as Dawn, failing to find the hairbrush, mutters, "Don't even say a _word_."

She grins. "Hey, no need to worry. Words can't express how silly you look."

"Shut up." Dawn groans, rubs her eyes. Then she blinks, does a double-take, and scowls. "Iris."

"Yeah?"

Dawn thrusts her alarm clock at Iris, like an accusation. "It's _seven. _In the _morning_. Tell me why I'm awake."

"Hmm." Iris crosses her arms, frowns thoughtfully. "Because you should really try living up to your namesake? Get up. We're running."

"I'm not exactly –"

"– gonna find a good reason not to, so." She hardens her heart to Dawn's tiredness, but softens her tone, knowing and hating the reason why Dawn needs this. "C'mon. It's for your own good."

A sigh. "Okay, fine, I'm coming."

* * *

They start out with a good pace, so that in twenty minutes they're out of Twinleaf and in the forests near Lake Verity. It's not late enough in the run for them not to talk for want of air, but Dawn's being awfully quiet. Iris gives her a sidelong glance, trying to discern her mood.

"Stop staring at me," Dawn snaps, eyes ahead.

Well. That's certainly telling.

But Iris keeps checking on her as the minutes pass, as they fall into the rhythm of it; Dawn's fists are clenched, her hands a quiver; her feet slam against the earth. Iris wonders if Dawn's trying to injure the path or herself.

Whichever it is, Dawn's slowing down. Anger, even self-directed, can only fuel a person for so long. Speed is imperative to Dawn's move improving: Iris is sure of it. She adopts a tough coach persona and takes a breath.

"Pick," says Iris, "up. The. Pace!"

Dawn slows even more, and at Iris's frown, she starts to walk.

"I'm exhausted," Dawn says, and stops, hands on knees, sweaty hair falling out of her ponytail, huffing and puffing to beat the band. Their breaths are visible; Iris jogs in place to keep up her heart rate and ward off the cold, stupid insidious thing that it is. Oh, how she hates it. But it's what formed the dew-turned-hoarfrost on the grass beneath her shoes, that sparkles in the grey predawn light, so she supposes there are some upsides to it.

Wind cuts through her sweater, and Iris shivers: upsides or no, cold and Iris are not compatible, and Dawn's stationary-ness isn't helping.

"Dawn." Iris rubs her arms, pulls her hoodie over her head. "C'mon c'mon _c'mon_."

Dawn continues to stare at the ground. "No."

Iris lets loose a long sigh. Despite the smallness of the action, she pleased with the billow of steam that comes of it. "Let's go."

"No. I'm finished."

"No, _we _are not finished. Does this look like Lake Verity to you?" Iris waves her hand at the silent leafy sentinels looming over them. "No? Well, maybe that's just because we ain't done."

"I –"

"Save it for the Lake." She offers Dawn a hand. "I'll race you, and maybe I'll go easy –"

"Be quiet, Iris." Dawn straightens, crosses her arms, and looks away from her. "I'm _finished_. I am done. I…I" – she half-growls, half-screams: at Iris, at the forest, herself most likely – "I _quit_, dammit."

They are no longer talking about the run.

Iris shouldn't be surprised: the run was never about _running_, really.

She's surprised at it anyway.

"You can't quit," Iris says.

Dawn whips around so her back faces Iris, and throws it over her shoulder: "What do you know about being a coordinator? Oh, that's right: nothing. And why shouldn't I quit? 'Cause _you _say so?" She begins striding away.

" 'Cause I believe in you."

The words come out quieter than Iris would've liked – her original plan was to yell some sense into Dawn – so quiet she isn't sure if she thought it or whispered it.

Dawn hesitates, then looks at Iris over her shoulder. "After my last contest, I got booed, Iris. Then I told Coordinator Watch that I was thinking of retiring, and after the segment aired" – she sighs, runs a hand through her hair – "I got congratulatory notes. People were _glad_."

"Oh, okay." Iris shrugs. "So you're quitting 'cause you're bad at contests."

Dawn blinks. "No, I'm – that's not the problem."

"Not the _prob_ – so, then," Iris says, controlling herself at the last moment, "you're quitting because of people's – people who you don't even know – opinions?" She shakes her head. "You are _such _a _kid._ Obviously running isn't helping. You should spend today training, because tomorrow, we are going to battle."

Dawn opens and closes her mouth, shakes her head, and sighs. "Fine."

They walk back towards Twinleaf together, not speaking – Iris decides to give Dawn time to mull over the problematic reasons behind her 'retirement'.

As they climb over the last hill, Dawn says, "Wait a sec. So you've been waking me up early for the past month, and making me run, just to have this talk with me? Couldn't we've talked this over in the afternoon?"

Iris grins. "Actually, I just wanted to make you run. And" – she shrugs, and isn't sure if Dawn's cheeks are reddening from delayed anger or the sunrise – "also, I got to see the infamous bedhead, which was quite worth –"

Dawn shoves her, and Iris falls over, begins rolling down the hill. She trips Dawn (later she'll swear it was accidental), who too begins rolling, and Iris cackles as she goes through the cool grass.

And – above the sound of the world awakening, the Pokémon greeting the sun – is the sound of Dawn's hill-broken, resigned laughter.


	2. Chapter 2

**So I ended up deviating completely from my original word prompt for this piece. Also, it's more Maylene-centric than Maylene-and-Dawn-friendship-oriented.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Her gym looks smaller now, in ways Maylene can't quite pinpoint: the building seems quaint, and the air itself is permeated with bittersweet nostalgia – for what and why, she doesn't know. The fact that she can't quite grasp what is bothering her bothers her more: she's always been a fan of things graspable, things _hitable. _

She feels old, but this autumn she is six months shy of her sixteenth birthday.

She feels tall, but it's not that she's grown much, at least not vertically: while hard-won muscles lie in wait beneath her callused skin, she still stands at scarcely a fist's-width over five feet.

When she walks in the gym, her feet whisper across the floor, as though she hasn't a right to walk here, be here, and is afraid of being caught and thrown out (by who?).

And yet –

the vibrancy of the leaves beyond the window seems muted, dulled. The cold doesn't bother her nearly as much as it once did

– yet everything has _lessened _somehow.

Everything, that is, except for the glows she's noticed on challengers and other Veilstonians over the past few months. Those remain worryingly bright, made more troubling because no one else seems to see them.

Lucario expresses the opinion that she should concentrate on the soon-to-begin battle, not on doomed leaves and glows that likely don't exist. It's odd, this ability to know what Lucario's thinking, feeling. He doesn't quite put his thoughts into words, and neither does she, but over the past three months or so they've understood each other's minds with astonishing (and occasionally irritating) clarity.

Maylene agrees with the sentiment if not his tone, so she rolls her shoulders, shakes her head to clear it of such thoughts.

Across the room, the challenger brings out his Alakazam, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched over. He glows grey tinged with red, though Maylene tries not to notice.

He clears his throat, smiles worriedly: "I, um, challenge you, Maylene of the…"

An awkward pause ensues, then Maylene realizes he's forgotten the city's name in his nervousness. "Oh – Veilstone."

"Right, right." He shifts his feet. "The Veilstone Gym, to a, um, battle."

Lucario glances at her, as though making sure she's paying attention, and she smiles to reassure him, punches her fist into her palm to conjure up some enthusiasm.

"I accept your –"

Loudly, from the gym's side door, comes a _knock-knock-knock-knock._

"Just a moment, sorry," Maylene tells the challenger. "Come in!"

Dawn walks gingerly into the room, glowing yellow and pink, and shrugs apologetically. "I didn't mean to interrupt," she says. She nods at the challenger, who is wide-eyed and open-mouthed at her cheerleader getup. "Do you mind if I watch? I'm just cheering on Maylene here."

Suddenly the challenger is all smiles and swagger: "No, I don't mind – Maylene'll need all the cheering she can get. I wouldn't mind some myself, though."

Dawn either doesn't hear him or is choosing to ignore him.

Maylene rolls her eyes, puffs out a breath. Perhaps she doesn't feel old, per se – perhaps everyone around her, namely the challengers, are simply getting more immature. "I accept your challenge."

* * *

The battle miraculously results in the personality-swappin' challenger receiving the Cobble badge. As they drop off Maylene's party at the Pokémon center, Dawn blames it on the type advantages of the challenger's team. Maylene blames it on Dawn, only half-jokingly. Lucario blames it on Maylene's thoughts wandering; he's probably right. She doesn't really want to admit it, though, so she concentrates on the feeling of cobbled stones beneath her bare feet and tells him to get well soon.

She and Dawn arrive back at the gym, dealing with the small talk as Maylene prepares the tea as Dawn sets up the knee-high table, turns on the lights.

Wind whistles through the gym, simultaneously molding the steam into new shapes and tearing it apart. For the first time in a long time, she feels its cold fingers, hears its siren song. This wind!: ripping the leaves from the trees, dissipating the steam, stirring up the ground-hugging nostalgia-scent, filling her with a sense of wanderlust or homesickness, both. Will it let nothing just _be_?

She begins to sigh, but the wind steals it away before it culminates into anything.

So closing the window then is inordinately satisfying, and if Dawn notices the pleasure she takes in this action she says nothing. Wind quelled for the moment, Maylene brings the teacups to the table and sits down, legs crossed.

Maylene curls her hands around the hot porcelain, closes her eyes. Breathes in the flowery scent of chamomile: it almost blocks off other, less welcome smells.

"That was a pretty cool battle," Dawn says, ignoring the bitter tea. She'll drink it later, Maylene knows, cold and sugared. Dawn visits every other month or so, and this custom so far remains unbroken. She glances up at Maylene, and Maylene gets the distinct feeling that Dawn is looking through her. "You and Lucario seemed perfectly in sync."

"He would probably beg to differ," Maylene admits, eyes still closed. She shrugs, sighs unencumbered by greedy zephyrs. The darkness on the inside of her eyelids is safe, predictable, even if she does have a headache. "But thanks."

There is a long silence that Maylene doesn't feel particularly inclined to breaking, then Dawn snaps her fingers in Maylene's face. Her eyes fly open; she jolts, spilling the hot tea on her fingertips, on Dawn's. For a time the air rings with curses, apologies, and the sound of cold water running. Eventually they arrive back at the table.

Dawn squints at Maylene, her elbows resting on the table, her hands steepled. Her glow pulses in time with Maylene's throbbing head. "Are you all right, Maylene? I mean, really okay. You seem…" she rubs her head, managing to both convey confusion and touch up her hair. "You seem kind of…faded."

"I've had a string of losses," Maylene says, which is only a half lie – she's had four in a row, but one of them was an informal battle (even if she did get hit full on by a Flash Cannon) and another a mere sparring session with Lucario. "And having hot tea spilled on your hands is plenty draining."

"I said I was sorry," Dawn mutters into her lap. She glances back up. "You can't let losses get you down, though, Maylene. Trust me, I've done that" – Dawn grimaces – "often, and it only makes you miserable. Just believe in yourself – remember, no need to worry!"

Maylene tries for a grin and stands up. She is always going; and when she arrives at her destination, she always wants to leave it again, unsure of what she is seeking but knowing that it is not _here_. For now, though, she indulges Dawn: "Right!"

"Wrong!" Dawn snaps. "I know that's not what's bothering you –"

"How?" She's genuinely curious.

Dawn falters, crosses her arms: "I am a poetry aficionada, and I know how to read between the lines. More importantly, I know _you _– and you don't sound discouraged, you sound – you look – exhausted." She pinches Maylene's arm; she doesn't really feel it, but gives an obligatory 'ow'.

"You're practically sleep-walking," Dawn continues. "You should" – she snaps her fingers, grins – "meditate! We should, I mean. Maybe it'll help you."

"Okay," Maylene says. "Why not?"

Maybe it will help; she isn't sure what she feels, with the inexplicable nostalgia and the ever-shrinking gym, or why. And she _has _gotten behind in her meditation…

They sit down side by side, Dawn fidgeting as she tries to get comfortable. The wind slaps at the walls but does not enter.

"How do we –"

"Shh," Maylene murmurs, eyes closed. She breathes in, out, contemplates. Sounds vibrate through the wood and up her arms; some seem like footfalls, heavy and fleeting. They are getting closer, or maybe it's the wind, that trickster, hitting at something.

There is a knock on the door, and Maylene reluctantly gets up to answer it. In years to come she will wish she never had, but at the moment she lacks prescience and turns the knob.

A tall man, clad in blue and glowing a purple-tinted teal, stands before her. He bows, shakes her hand, and introduces himself as Riley.

She begins to introduce herself, but he says, "I know your name."

Dawn gets up, frowns. "Hey, I know –"

"Things," he tells Maylene, "are going to be a little bit different from now on, Acolyte Maylene."

"I'm a gym leader," she says automatically, ripping her hand from his and stepping back, falling instantly into a fighter's stance. She realizes that she is very willing to fight this man: for if she's not a gym leader, what is she?

It's probably indicative of some issues that she cannot answer that question.

She wishes she knew the answer. She suspects the answer lies on Riley's tongue, in the nostalgia in the air – nostalgia for a gym she must leave, perhaps? – in the developments of the past three months.

Riley shakes his head as Dawn stares at him; Maylene cracks her knuckles, prepares.

"I am a gym leader," she says, louder now, as though volume and repetition make it true for at least a little while longer.

"Not anymore," he says. "From here on in, you're an Aura Guardian-in-training."

* * *

**I really love the idea of Maylene as an aura knight, but I have the feeling that _she _wouldn't love the idea. This one will probably be continued, but not necessarily next chapter.**

**Reviews are appreciated!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry this took so long, guys. I've had this headcanon bouncing in my skull for a while, but I wasn't quite sure how to articulate it.**

**But I did it eventually, and here it is!**

**You'll have to guess the characters for this one - I left out names purposely to see just how true I'm being to the pair's characters.**

**Prompt was 'Nighttime.'**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Beneath the cloak of night and the glare of streetlights, two girls splash disgruntledly through puddles, their fingers sticky from maple-glazed donuts, their breath duly sweet-scented. Raindrops drum _pitter-patter_ against the pair's red umbrella, against the surface of the shadowed world, and the older of the two observes that the staccato droplets make everything shimmer with motion.

Beside her, the younger licks her fingers, smacks her lips, and sighs with satisfaction, then growls as a puddle splashes over her shoes. She grumbles something that sounds very rain-unfriendly, and the older smirks at her, makes a quip that ignites the younger's temper – she yells at her for ages, it seems, which the older simply deflects with more sarcasm. They banter for some time, staying close to keep within the umbrella's radius.

They walk as they bicker, the older tiptoeing to avoid worms (those glistening creatures have been the focus of many a nightmare, and she _does not give a damn_ if they aren't 'really' bugs – they still creep her out), the younger walking toe-heel, toe-heel in the way she walks before crowds.

Eventually, the younger's anger – or her interest in feigning it – seems to ebb; she lifts her nose and delicately takes a sniff.

_Wait,_ she tells the older, nose quivering. The older tweaks it, snickering, but the younger slaps her hand away. It actually hurts, and the older puts her stinging hand into the rain, gives her companion a glare.

_Do you smell that? _the younger continues, oblivious. _ It smells like…mmm. _

The older snorts at the rapturous expression on her friend's face. In that snort, though, she catches the scent: rain-blurred the smell may be, but it is unmistakably melting butter, with a hint of nearly-burned seasoning salt.

The younger begins walking towards the source, and the older follows, considers reminding her friend that they _just _finished dessert. But then again, the younger's love of food knows no bounds, so she has to go with a different approach:

_We're broke,_ she says, flatly. Rain soaks into her socks and squishes around, mixing with sweat and lint. She wriggles her toes, despising the sensation.

The younger stares at her, eyes wide, eyebrows drooping. _What_?

_Well, if _you_ hadn't blown all our cash on_ _three -_ three! _-__ donuts, then maybe we'd be able to buy whatever it is you're smelling. But you_ _did, so too bad, so sad. _She shrugs, shudders as she observes a worm slowly inching across the pavement.

The younger crosses her arms, scowls. _Fine.  
_

_Oh, cry me a river, _the older retorts, disliking the accusation in her companion's voice – although she would admit, were she the kind of person who admitted things, that her own observation was fairly finger-point-y, too.

The younger glares at her, face growing gradually redder: the older figures it's time for another of the infamous displays of the younger's temper and braces herself with snarky repartee.

Instead she gets a cool _Well, since you like water sooo much _and is hip-bumped out of under the umbrella.

It takes a moment for it to register, but when it does, the older stomps – as best as she can manage while avoiding worms – back under the umbrella, takes its handle, and shoulder-checks the younger, sending _her_ staggering into the storm.

_Take that, _she says, and finds herself promptly shoved.

Beneath the deepening night and the glow of streetlights, two girls splash puddles at each other, fingertips slippery from the rain, their grips on the coveted umbrella duly ephemeral. Raindrops drum _pitter-patter _against the pair's upside-down red umbrella, against the bodies of the shadowed girls, and the older of the two observes that the staccato droplets make everything shimmer with motion – not that the two of them need raindrops to accentuate their movements: this hair-stuck-to-foreheads, water-steaming-from-bodies dance. Their laughter slices through the air like lightning.

The older manages to grab and run away with the umbrella, sticking her tongue out over her shoulder; the younger shrieks, snatches it back from the older even as she gloats. The Battle of the Umbrella is a fierce one that will end in sniffles for all and shivery arguments by the fireplace, arguments that will hold within them more warmth than the flames, and infinitely more life.

The storm, finally succeeding in thoroughly drenching both of them, believes itself to be the ultimate winner of the Battle of the Umbrella. It couldn't be more wrong.

* * *

**'Twas really fun to write this one.**

**Reviews would be very much appreciated, reader - suggestions for the next prompt(s?) or character(s), suggestions on how to improve (be it character portrayal, update schedule, or writing style/technique), etc.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Happy birthday, Alicia! It's not much, but it _is _Iris, and I hope you like it.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

The day after the funeral, Iris visits the grave.

It's a rainy day, unremarkable – she's pleased he was buried yesterday, in the sunshine and the wind. The rain makes a dull _hush-shush-_ing sound.

"I" – she stops, reminds herself to breathe, though the lump in her throat makes it difficult. She begins again with something more mundane than what she was planning: "Hello."

For whatever reason she expects an answer, and gets none. Something stabs at her heart; her eyes start to water, because there will never _be _an answer. Which is a concept she had trouble acknowledging yesterday: it's not just his physical body that's gone. His voice died with him, too.

Iris opens and closes her mouth, struggling to speak, wondering: _did _mine_ die with him?_

A little sob escapes her clamped-together lips: apparently not.

She stands up, staggering, the mud clinging to her leggings. She looks helplessly at the grave, at the wilting flowers littered around it. It's so damn _quiet_.

She is suffocating in it.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, she runs away. Silence, unfortunately, is faster than she, and follows apace.

* * *

The rustling of the leaves is almost enough to lull Iris to sleep. She will not sleep, though – she fears nightmares, of the moment of death and the dripping knife, the light leaving his eyes; of the body in its iron-pressed oh-so-crisp starched clothes, of the coffin, and the oppressive silence. Of the headstone.

The headstone, with its epitaph. It doesn't match who it's written of at all. Too stiff and dry, like the collar, like the body.

Yesterday she had read the epitaph and fled, heeding not the calls of the other attendees. Iris doesn't remember where she went, only that she awoke with a ringing in her ears and an aching jaw. And then, today, she came back, to apologize.

She will not cry for him. Heaven knows she's shed enough tears in her life, over people living and dead, and – well, she has discovered that people aren't the only ones who suffer mortality. Sometimes happiness does.

She wishes her guilt could, too.


End file.
